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It had been a few weeks since they had moved into the tower. While they still had problems, Bob thought everyone had begun to get along quite well.
He only wished he could be a part of it.
The others were nice, they would talk to him, make jokes, tell stories and he genuinely liked spending time with them. But despite all that, Bob was still scared.
He didn’t know how to interact with them, he’d met them during a bad time in his life (as if his life had any good times). He’d hurt them. Made them go on a whole quest across the country and into their worst memories just to save him and he didn’t know how to repay them for that.
He didn’t even know how to talk to them. He had barely known them a day, before they watched his trauma play out in front of them. How do you talk to someone after that?
While the others had become actual friends, Bob knew he was only here so they could keep an eye on him. Make sure he was mentally stable enough to not destroy another city, other than that he didn’t matter.
The problem was, Bob wanted to be friends with them. The moments of connection he had with them were the best he even felt without drugs or during a manic episode.
Well maybe he’d felt better when he was a kid, before his dad got so bad, before his mum’s mental health got worse, before they truly hated him. But Bob couldn’t remember that far, his main memories from home played out much like the one he had hidden in in the void, or worse, like he said, the others were much worse.
The good times were when he could escape to his room and only had to listen to the shouting through the door. When he could try to distract himself with the toys his parents had bought him before it went downhill.
But now, in the tower, with the Thunderbolts, he didn’t have to hide from the yelling and insults. He didn’t have to keep his eyes on their hands, ready in case they tried to hit him. He didn’t have to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night searching for food after dinner got cut short for another shouting match or another beating. He didn’t have to memorise which floorboards creaked, or which hinges squeaked.
But he did.
Even after years of not living there, he still hadn’t dropped the habit of staying invisible.
Even now, Bob was sat on the floor of his room fiddling with a Rubik’s cube, listening to the people in the kitchen, scared to leave the safety of his room. Just like when he was a kid.
Only this time, the shouting wasn’t angry or threatening, it was playful and they were laughing and having fun and being together. Only this time, Bob didn’t want to hide in his room, to curl up into a ball so tight he disappeared. This time, Bob wanted to leave him room, to join them, to talk to them, find out what was so funny, join in with the jokes. But he couldn’t.
Bob had crept out his room earlier, water bottle in hand. An excuse to be in the kitchen, he wasn’t really thirsty, just wanted to be there. They had greeted him with happiness when he entered the room, still laughing at Walker who was on his knees cleaning up water. That must have been the noise he heard a minute ago. That made Bob freeze, worried he would be angry, but Walker was laughing too. Bob had to skirt around him to get to the sink, muttering apologies, that were easily waved off.
Yelena even tried to draw him into the conversation, explaining what had happened, pausing to laugh in the middle. Bob just gave a forced chuckle before heading back to his room, walking as casually as possible until he was out of sight. Only to sprint for his door as soon as he was out of sight. The door closed behind him, fast and silent.
He couldn’t help the frustrated tears that forced their way down his cheeks as he collapsed onto the floor. Why couldn’t just be normal?
He wanted to talk to them, to be with them, not to be stuck alone in his room with nothing to do but think about things he’d rather not remember. He was right there, he had finally got the courage to leave his room, and he still messed it up.
They had been nothing but nice since they had moved into the tower, and yet Bob could barely get himself to leave his room, let alone talk to them.
Bob got up and began pacing, tugging at his hair, muttering to himself
“Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why can’t you just be normal for once in your life? Why can’t you just talk to them?”
This same thing had been happening for weeks, he would find an excuse to leave his room, to go to the others, they would greet him with friendly welcomes, and he would run away.
He knew they were worried about him skipping meals, not leaving his room. But he couldn’t help it. Yelena had told him that once, that she understood; Bob had apologised for worrying them, but he couldn’t fix it.
He could barely hold a casual conversation with them, let alone ask them for help. He guessed this was just something he would have to figure out on his own.
It was times like this where the cravings hit him the most. Bob was very thankful that the Sentry serum had stopped him going through withdrawal, but it didn’t stop the psychological dependence, the part of his that longed for it to quiet his mind, to calm him enough to leave his room, to let him speak.
But he knew that he couldn’t go back, even if he wanted to there was no way he could leave the tower without being monitored, let alone find a way to get drugs. Bob really wanted to stay clean. He didn’t want to stay a slave to the chemicals.
If he ever could make it, this would be the best place to do it. He had a safe place to live full of people who cared about him (even if it was only so he didn’t send the world into the void).
But the cravings didn’t care. They still whispered to him, promised relief he’d never be allowed to have again.
He could still hear them talking downstairs.
He heard Alexei’s booming laugh and could almost picture the man throwing his head back, a hand grabbing Bucky’s shoulder, who would pretend to be annoyed, but secretly wouldn’t mind. He imagined Yelena sat on one of the barstools, next to Ava, both trying hard not to smile at Alexei’s stupid joke. He assumed John had stood up and was leaning against the counter, trying to both supress a laugh and glare at the same time.
Bob wished he could join them.
But he’d already been in the kitchen. Only half an hour ago.
And he didn’t have another reason to go back.
He always felt like he needed a reason, some excuse to justify showing up.
Because if he had a reason, it wouldn’t be so embarrassing.
If they ignored him, or told him to go away, he could pretend it didn’t hurt
He knew he wasn’t a good friend, not like them; he couldn’t talk to people or make them laugh, or even stand in a room with people without being awkward.
Maybe he’d lost those skills somewhere along the way, after years of isolation, addiction, everything.
Or maybe he’d never had them to begin with.
It’s not like he had great role models in communication.
He sighed, wiping his tears away with the back of his sleeve.
He wanted that connection so badly. But he couldn’t do it.
Not tonight.
Maybe tomorrow would be better.
He collapsed onto his bed, curling into the blankets as the muffled sounds from the kitchen carried through the walls — voices, music, laughter.
A comfort.
And a taunt.